


Check

by Primal_Nexus



Series: 'Twas Lunchies in the Replimat [3]
Category: Star Trek: Deep Space Nine
Genre: 'Twas lunchies in the Replimat by mention only, Episode: s03e21 The Die Is Cast, Episode: s03e22 Explorers, First Kiss, Fix-It of Sorts, Julian what have you done, M/M, POV Elim Garak, POV Julian Bashir, We jumped the track to canon-town, Yeah I wrote Leeta into a Craigslist missed connection and I'm NOT sorry!
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-11-20
Updated: 2020-11-20
Packaged: 2021-03-10 05:28:19
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,608
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27638213
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Primal_Nexus/pseuds/Primal_Nexus
Summary: Garak deals with the fallout of his unexpected return to DS9 after participating in the disastrous joint Obsidian Order and Tal Shiar offensive against the Founders’ homeworld.
Relationships: Julian Bashir/Elim Garak
Series: 'Twas Lunchies in the Replimat [3]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/2019175
Comments: 29
Kudos: 69





	Check

**Author's Note:**

> I’m beginning a sharp deviation from canon with this entry in the series and alas only remaining on theme here by point of reference (rather than *actual* Lunchies in the Replimat). But we WILL get back to the Replimat, folks—all in good time!

“Do you know what the sad part is, Odo? I’m a very _good_ tailor.”

Odo turned to leave, but then hesitated, not yet stepping back onto the Promenade.

“Garak…” Odo sighed, sounding exasperated, perhaps with himself. He didn’t turn back around, but instead addressed the floor. “I was thinking that you and I should have breakfast together sometime.”

“Why, Constable—” Garak hardly knew how to categorize the invitation, much less begin to express gratitude at the offer of further companionship from the being he’d lately tortured to the brink of psychosis and death. The grace and allowance for bygones to remain bygones seemed almost perverse coming from a personality whose rigidness lay in stark contrast to his corporeal fluidity. “I thought you _didn’t_ eat.”

“I don’t.” Odo left quickly before Garak could respond, and Garak watched him go, mouth slightly agape on a half-formed quip. 

He and Odo were both retrofitted fixtures of this station, holdovers from Terok Nor. There was _history_ there, but Garak had only quite recently discovered Odo’s capacity for complexity of character that was in any way interesting. Terrible common ground having already been established through regrettable means, Garak supposed that there were perhaps other areas of compelling overlap to discover, more innocently. And of course, if he would have to unexpectedly continue in miserable exile (which seemed now a hopelessly permanent arrangement), it couldn’t hurt to establish a friendly attachment to the station’s head of security.

Garak tutted himself softly in the darkness and disarray of his bombed out shop. He pushed the charred shards of what had once been a large display unit dismally with the toe of his shoe—tidy, shiny, and stylish in the midst of all this ruin on the floor. It would take quite some time for this space to properly reflect his aesthetic values again.

“I hope I won’t have to start competing with Odo for opportunities to argue with you over a meal.”

And here Garak had been surprised _again_! The Doctor's slim backlit figure hovered at the threshold of the shop, hesitating, and it was as if Bashir was aware that he had startled Garak, who tensed with internal chastisement; he couldn’t afford to remain awash in oblivious self-pity. He bit the inside of his cheeks into a brief outward flicker of a smile.

“Nonsense, Doctor. The Constable knows better than to encroach on my lunchtime availability, which remains at your disposal, well, _entirely_ and _indefinitely_ , I suppose.” He had tried to slide into his usual affectation, carefree and dubiously vapid, but his words had come out gruff, all wrong. He turned away from the Doctor and thought of how best to busy himself immediately, leveling a dark stare at himself as he moved to continue cleaning the nearest mirror. It was a curiosity to Garak, a wonder even, that there were times the influence of the Doctor’s presence quite overcame his good sense and training.

Doctor Bashir stepped into a shaft of light, and in the mirror’s reflection, his expression was serious, calm, almost blank, but with that charming edge of youthful petulance stiffening a barely protruding bottom lip.

“You weren’t planning on coming back at all, were you?”

This brought a genuine swell of fondness, which made Garak’s next smile come a bit easier. He gave up the pretense of polishing the mirror and turned to face his surprise guest. It wouldn’t do to have one of their increasingly frequent philosophically urgent discussions at this moment, but even entertaining the idea of a worried, crestfallen Doctor Bashir steeped in despondency awaiting his return (perhaps frowning into a beer while sharing a less than satisfactory lunch with Chief O’Brien) was a secret thrill that couldn’t be resisted.

“My dear Doctor, it sounds like you _missed_ me.”

“ _Don’t_ try to deflect, Garak.” Bashir took a confident step toward him. “It won’t work.” He sighed suddenly through the nose and shook his head. “I _did_ miss you. Lunch wasn’t the same. There, I’ve said it. Are you happy?”

Indeed, Garak found that he was, momentarily. He crowded toward Bashir with a slinking, sly grace, appraising him with growing amusement. Perhaps he could be goaded into a brief bout of sparring, with no ground truly lost or gained. Had all his machinations come to preferred fruition, Garak had to admit that he would have missed this most of all, the delightfully standoffish interest of this indelicate, gorgeous, simultaneously brilliantly learned and intoxicatingly callow young man, who, somewhere underneath the sterilizing evidence of the infirmary that clung to his awful uniform, was an undeniable feast for the senses, especially at such close range.

“There was a river in which I used to swim quite joyfully and easily. I tried to step back in, and that was a mistake. The river wasn’t the same, either. I’m afraid it’s no more or less complicated than that.”

“You found out that you’re not the same man who stepped into the river in the first place,” Bashir insisted, and, to Garak’s delight, without stepping back, “ _That_ ’s the complication.” 

Well, it had been _implied_ of course for the Doctor’s benefit, so Garak answered his tending-toward-the-obvious response with nothing more than an acknowledging nod and tight smile. There was a kind of truth in it, he supposed, but he didn’t want to go into detail. After all, it had been Enabran Tain bemoaning the dulling of his own good instincts that had perhaps changed things. And all those _things_ considered, even had Garak managed to torture Odo to death, or if he had reported the confession to Tain, or even had he included it in the tedious mission log demanded by Sisko during their short debriefing, the outcome would have been much the same. Well, except that there may not have been the offer of occasional breakfasts, or, in some other scenario, an Odo with whom to enjoy them. “You’re impossible.” Bashir’s snarl brought him out of his thoughts, but not so quickly back to the moment that he wasn’t caught damnably off guard for a third time in minutes, when he was summarily grabbed and thoroughly kissed.

_Quite_ thoroughly! It was a stop-the-turbolift kind of kiss, not a parrying countermove but a wild _lunge_ in their negotiation. Bashir opened his pliant human mouth and pressed the full flavor of himself into Garak. It was wet and _hot_ —the blast to his core from the Doctor’s mouth! The tongue like a darting regnar, but soft and yielding, a steaming pickled root vegetable straight out of a fresh batch of homemade stew!—and it was… all too brief.

The Doctor released him, and then he did step back, ducking his expression into darkness. But it was deliberate, not necessarily retreating.

  
“Well!” Garak managed. His mouth worked, considering, working too slowly in his estimation to give adequately _self-assured_ voice to his next useless thought. “I’m back, all the same.”

“And I suppose I’m _very_ glad,” Bashir admitted. Was that _regret_ and _annoyance_ coming through in his tone? The subtext was consuming and disorienting. Amusement was to be found there too, confounding and gratifying in the same moment of consideration. Garak felt positively eclipsed. At some point, a very long, careful think on the matter would be in order. “Garak.” The Doctor nodded once, curtly and stiffly, in farewell, and turned on his heel with all the established formality of his rank and profession.

“Doctor,” Garak replied to the steadily retreating back, unable and unwilling to disguise the delicious breathlessness that this surprising turn had inflicted upon him.

* * *

Julian sat at the bar, a forgotten raktajino no longer offering steam as he reviewed and annotated a recent journal submission detailing the improvements of a known antidote for Akwood’s syndrome—pedestrian stuff, but poorly written and shoddily analyzed enough to keep him busy with annoyed swipes and pecks of his index finger on the padd. Certainly _not_ ready for publication, this mess.

“Excuse me.”

Leeta was a vision in tight-fitting muted pinks and greens, the yellow lights of the bar glinting handsomely off her auburn hair. “You’re Doctor Bashir, aren’t you?”

“That’s right,” he ventured carefully.

“I’m Leeta.” He knew. She’d caught his eye before, many times. In fact, he’d sat in this exact seat at the bar more than once, pretending to be engrossed in study while sneaking amorous glances at her while she ran her table. A gorgeous woman. “I’ve been meaning to come by the infirmary to see you.” 

Her exaggeratedly and charmingly faked cough might have provided a welcome jolt of interest and opportunity, were it not for her terrible timing.

“Oh dear.” He could let her down easily enough, play up his natural tendency toward obliviousness, summon the necessary professional care and spare her the embarrassment of having been caught out. “I’m afraid I’m off duty,” he demurred. “Nurse Jabara would be pleased to assess you. I’m sorry you’re not feeling well.”

“Oh.” The single syllable contained as much surprise as it did disappointment. And of course it was well warranted. The Julian Bashir of even a few weeks previous would have stood and given her a hands-on assessment right here in the bar. “Thank you.” Frosty, certainly, but at least not heartbroken. The deceptively doe-eyed dabo girl had seemingly more than enough sense than to take his mercuriality as a personal slight. Thank goodness.

Julian picked up his mug and fought the urge to toast her retreating form. He took a swig that was cold and disgusting, and he thought of Garak, frowning deeply in a sudden haze of confused gloom. Just _what_ had he gotten himself _into_ with that kiss?

**Author's Note:**

> Go easy on me. I've never gotten to the point of out-and-out non-platonic physicality between these two in my posted writing. I'm following a line of reasoning that I fleshed out in terms of where I would have liked their narrative to change from established canon. I always thought "The Die is Cast" was the perfect opportunity for it, and I always resented "Explorers" as a giant walk-back of a clearly established relational arc and tension... although I never once resented sweet, sexy Leeta, not once! Hahaha, on to better things for her, and quicker too, I would hope. ANYWAY, the spn finale is literally happening AT THIS MOMENT (you know, I gotta just strike while the iron is hot, don't I? *SIGH OF INDULGENT SELF-HATRED*), the world's a mess, I'm a mess, Julian's a mess, and Garak's freaking hopeless. WHAT ELSE IS NEW?


End file.
